


if you can't clean yourself up, i'll do it for you

by cancerthecrabbo



Category: Point Break (1991)
Genre: Caretaking, Fever, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, High fever, Hurt/Comfort, Male Friendship, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Sick Character, Sickfic, Whump, Whumptober 2018, Whumptober: Fever, papa!Angelo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-28 13:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16242605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cancerthecrabbo/pseuds/cancerthecrabbo
Summary: Johnny tries to call in sick when he wakes up feeling like death.  Instead of calling his boss, he calls Angelo.  It's a good thing he does because halfway through the day his brain starts to bake from the fever.(Day 8 of Whumptober: Fever)





	if you can't clean yourself up, i'll do it for you

**Author's Note:**

> goddamn 11;43 pm on a school night goddamn whumptober being too fun stupid frickin point break fandom being so small god i love keanu reeves

Johnny wakes up and immediately wishes he hadn’t.  This doesn’t often happen; he’s only felt this crappy a handful of days in his whole life.  The days after his knee injury when he was bedridden and looking down the nose of a life without football and possibly without any sort of physical activity had been gloomy, to say the least.  Even in college when his friends were eager to explore the use of alcohol every Friday and Johnny would routinely wake up with a hangover, he’s never felt this crappy.

 

Waking up, Johnny immediately realizes he can’t breathe out of his nose.  His eyes burn with a fever and the air burns his nose, feeling cold against his exposed skin.  Aches grip his joints and muscles as if he’s going through growing pains again.  To top it all off, Johnny’s neck is horribly stiff and his head throbs viciously. 

 

The light which filters in from the blinds, though minimal, stabs into his eyes.  He shuts them again and breathes in through his mouth – that hurts, too.  It seems every inch of his body is under attack.  Slowly, as if he’s moving through honey, Johnny reaches over to feel for the phone on his nightstand.  He knocks two things over, one of which falls onto the floor, but it all pays off when his fingers brush against both his phone and a water bottle.  Priority number one is to call in sick so they don’t think he’s slacking off, not quench his thirst, so he picks up the phone and cracks open an eye so that he can dial the number.

 

The mild ringing is almost too loud to handle.  He considers hanging up and just hoping someone assumes he’s dead instead of shirking his responsibilities.  Before he can, though, someone picks up. 

 

“ _Where the hell are you, Johnny?  You’re an hour late.  Harp’s gonna have your head on a stick.”_ It seems that Johnny, in his feverish state, dialed Angelo instead of his police chief. 

 

“H-hey,” Johnny’s throat is too dry for this shit.  He pauses to cough wetly, clearing out the crap in his lungs.  “Hey Angelo, uh, I’m not gonna be coming in today.”

 

“Christ, man, I don’t know how you manage to sound sick as a dog over the phone.  I’ll swing by after work with some soup.  Cya.”

 

Before Johnny can even think to protest and insist that he’s a grown man that can take care of himself, Angelo hangs up the phone.  He sets the phone down and rubs a hand over his over-heated face.  Admittedly, Johnny would like some company or at least some food.  He’s too tired to even shift around with big movements, much less get up and actually cook.  It’s also doubtful that his kitchen is stocked with the ingredients to make a nice, warm chicken noodle soup.  So instead of calling Angelo again to tell him to stand down, Johnny sluggishly flips the pillow over to the cool side and pulls the sheets up under his chin. 

 

* * *

 

He wakes up about 45 minutes later feeling even worse and this time with nausea making his nonexistent breakfast crawl up his throat.  Johnny throws the sheets off of his body and staggers into the bathroom, his entire body protesting, the ache behind his eyes intensifying, and drops to his knees in front of the toilet.  His neck hurts so much it’s almost a relief to let it go limp and heave only stinging bile into the toilet.  Sweat runs down his neck and back, making his grey shirt stick to his skin.  Johnny thrusts a hand in the general direction of the toilet paper and swears when his knuckles smack against the wall before they reach the roll.  He wipes his mouth and flushes the toilet.

 

Standing is a struggle.  He’s lightheaded – dry heaving really drained whatever scraps of energy he had.  Now that Johnny is no longer in danger of throwing up all over himself and the bed, he can feel how absolutely freezing his bathroom floor is.  He knows it’s the fever making him feel like the air conditioning is on full blast.  It’s enough to encourage him to push past the aching of his muscles and clamber to his feet with the help of the sink. 

 

The mirror above the sink reveals that Johnny resembles a zombie.  It’s funny because he feels it’s pretty accurate given the chills that grip him and the lilac bags under his eyes.  Johnny coughs into his elbow when a tickle starts in his chest which turns into a full-blown fit.  He lurches past the door frame, nearly smashing right into it, and collapses into his bed.  He doesn’t stop coughing until his eyes are streaming and black spots float across his vision.

 

 _Goddamnit_ , he thinks.  The cold and flu medicine he has is in the cabinet he just left behind and Johnny doesn’t have the energy to even reach over and pull the covers over his shivering body.

 

* * *

 

Apparently, the second bout of sleep sticks.  Johnny wakes up and glances over to the clock which reads 6:55 PM.  Angelo must be coming around soon.

 

“Utah!  Are ya dead yet?”  Angelo’s voice carries far too well from the entrance of his house to Johnny’s room as well as the sound of plastic bags crinkling.  He’s too busy trembling apart to answer.  “Johnny?”  Angelo is far quieter the second time.

 

Johnny appreciates it.  Regardless, his throat burns like fire and everything aggravates his headache, so he physically can’t make himself open his mouth and call out to Angelo.  It must worry his partner because Johnny can hear the bags he’s brought being set down and seconds later, Angelo is in his room.

 

“Christ, kid.”  It’s an appropriate response.  Johnny probably looks half-dead at the moment. 

 

“Hey.”  Even that one word is exhausting.  His vision swims terribly.

 

Angelo approaches the bed with concern stark on his face.  “You really are sick, Johnny.  Hold on.”  He strides off into Johnny’s bathroom with purpose.  Only a minute or two passes, or maybe more – he isn’t equipped with the awareness necessary to keep track of time when he’s this sick – before Angelo comes back with a bottle of medicine and thermometer.  “C’mere, kid.”  Sensing that his younger partner isn’t capable of sitting up on his own, Angelo slips an arm around Johnny’s shoulders and pulls him up. 

 

Ordinarily, Johnny wouldn’t let himself be fussed over or even show this much vulnerability, but he honestly thinks he might drop dead without any help.  So he lets Angelo stick the thermometer in his mouth and, when it reads 104, lets him run a bath.  Angelo curses a blue streak as he fills the tub with lukewarm water and rambles about Johnny being so stupid he nearly let his brain melt.

 

“M’ brain’s fine,” Johnny says as he sways in the bathroom.  Angelo mutters something like _for god’s sake_ before pulling Johnny’s shirt and pants off.  In any other circumstances, Johnny might make some joke like ‘buy me dinner first’ but the water is so cold it takes his breath away.  “Lemmie out.”

 

Angelo does not.  Instead, he sits on the toilet seat and keeps Johnny from escaping until his temperature low enough that he has the decency to appreciate the fact that Angelo left his boxers on.  He leaves to grab another pair of boxers and sweatpants and then closes the door.

 

Johnny dries off as quickly as he can and pulls on the clothes.  Pulling open the door, he sees Angelo is gone from his bedroom.  He shrugs and pads over to his bed, chugging the water bottle he’d been eyeing since the morning.  Once he’s no longer parched, Johnny lies down on his side, shifting onto his back when he can’t breathe properly.  The position allows him to breathe through his nose, a tiny blessing amidst the rest of his symptoms.  Even though he no longer feels dehydrated, the headache persists.  His fingers tingle from the over-stimulation that comes with light sensitivity. 

 

He’s drifting off into a fitful sleep when Angelo bustles back into the room with a bowl of soup in one hand and another water bottle in the other.  He sets the bowl down on Johnny’s nightstand and then pulls the pillow out from under his head, propping it up on the headrest.  Angelo ignores his noise of complaint and helps him sit up.

 

“Just eat half of this and I’ll let you sleep and be out of your hair.”

 

Johnny grips the spoon with a weak hand, sipping at the warm broth and deciding that the soup is perfect.  “Thanks, Angelo.  You don’t have to stay.” 

 

“And what?  Leave you alone to die?”

 

“I’m not that sick.”  Johnny swallows the chicken and vegetables.  It’s so good he doesn’t even care when it hurts to swallow.

 

Angelo ruffles his damp hair and tells him to finish his soup.


End file.
